Pops shows up at my house yesterday and throws a bag at me, telling me he made a big score. I know it ain't weed and it's really got my curiosity up, so I open it up. There's a box of 22-250 Boattails, a fly box, and a set of desert camouflage - shirts and pants.
"I know you're hunting high desert in a couple of weeks, so I thought these might come in handy" he says.
I thank him, he steals a six pack and leaves.
Today I got around to trying on my new hunting britches and shirt. What the fuck? I can't even get the pants up around my ass and forget about buttoning the shirt.
So I check the size. The pants are a 30 inch waist and the shirt is a medium long.
Nice try Pops, but I haven't been able to fit into those clothes since I was like maybe 12. I mean, I wear a 34 inch waist and an Xlarge shirt and a 2X if I want to carry my 45.
Now I'm wondering if he still thinks I'm his little boy, if he finally caught that Alzheimer's that I hear is going around, or if he was just fucking with me.